


anger problem

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Extreme Violence Repressed By Lesser Violence, Gen, What-If, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: Oksana p.o.v. // AU // one-shot // Oksana is five years old and her brother is so annoying.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	anger problem

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I save my notes for the end, but not sure if this drabble would make as much sense if I did that. I saw a post that basically said: "Eve would sleep much better if Villanelle had been hitting couches instead of killing people." And so I decided to take a small look at Oksana if she had been given a coping mechanism at a young age.

/ / /

Oksana is five years old and her brother is so annoying. And so she pushes him, pushes him and watches him fall, tiny face scraped up by little rocks. There's a cut on his chin, coated in dirt and blood, as he sits on the ground and weeps.

Oksana doesn't shy away from her mother's stare, even if her heart beats a bit harder in her chest. It feels like fear. It feels like terror. But Oksana swallows it all down and says sorry though she doesn't mean it. And her mother stares, stares for so long that Oksana finally looks away.

When something similar happens at the age of seven – Oksana's sure fist flying through the air and creating a welt, red and rising, upon her brother's jaw – that's when her mother takes her by the arm, tugging harder than ever before, takes her to the edge of the woods. And Oksana thinks, for a moment, for a terrifying moment, that she'll be left here. Told to leave. Sent into the forest, lost forever.

“Oksana... Oksana are you listening to me?”

Her mother's voice is sharp, like the crack of a whip, and Oksana blinks up into her mother's face.

“When you feel it coming on, this dark thing inside of you, come here. Come here to the trees, scream at them and hit them and twist and turn until you are dead tired. But no more with your brother, okay?”

“But what if--” and bony fingers grip Oksana's jaw, stealing the words from Oksana's tongue, and there's that stare once more. It's cold. It's knowing, too.

“No more, Oksana. You can't go through this world causing wounds or one day, all the blood will be your own.”

Her mother walks away then. And Oksana looks up at the trees, spindly limbs creaking in the breeze.

And she pictures her brother among the branches – her stupid, annoying brother – and so she hits the trees until her palms are blistered and her hair is matted to her forehead.

And she feels better. At least for a little while.

/

Oksana is sixteen years old and she has a massive crush on her teacher. It's a tender thing living inside of Oksana's chest, it flutters and makes her go quiet. Quieter than usual anyway. And sometimes Oksana wishes she could squeeze this wanting, strangle it before it gets too big, too hard to handle.

But one smile and Oksana is done for. A smile. A friendly touch to the shoulder. A laugh, warm and indulgent, and Oksana is caught again. Leaning closer, paying more attention, offering to clean the desks and tidy the books left behind. Staring at the slant of a pale neck, aching so very much...

“Oksana, are you alright?” Ms. Sokolova says, voice slipping over Oksana's ears, and she nods because her mouth is weighed down with longing. Longing so deep that it hurts.

And then Oksana watches as some stupid man picks Ms. Sokolova up in his stupid car and takes her away. And Oksana leaves painful marks upon her own skin, fingernails digging into her forearms, and her teeth grit in frustration, in the kind of rage that could set this whole school on fire.

And trees aren't good enough these days, though she still gives it a go whenever she can. Instead, Oksana goes to the junk-yard a mile or so out of town, and she swipes her brother's baseball bat and she runs around these heaps of broken cars and trucks and dismantles them with glee. A headlight here. A window there. Climbing atop mountains of rust and swinging with so much passion that new dents are made, new disasters are born into metal and glass.

It's his car, pulverized and mangled.  
It's his bones, snapped like twigs.  
It's his face, turned into mush.

When she's finally done, dusk closing in on the sky and her clothes nearly soaked with sweat, Oksana picks a car to sit in. Breathing heavy in the backseat, eyes closed, and she dreams of her teacher some more and she can't help but touch herself now, all that anger melting away into lust.

It takes the rest of the edge off.

And she feels better. For a while anyway.

/

Oksana is twenty-four years old and she's so bored of everything. Bored of working for idiots. Bored of her family nagging. Bored of this town. Bored of her own life.

“Why don't you go stay with that woman you see? What's her name?” Pyotr says around his forkful of food and Oksana won't shove his head into the wall like she desperately wants to, but she still kicks him in the shin and laughs at his angry look in response.

“I don't see her anymore. She's boring, just like everyone else.”

Oksana steals some of her brother's food from his plate and when he grumbles and whines – well, she can't stop herself this time, the impulse is too strong, and so his skull bounces off the door jam like a ball. And then they are fighting, which they haven't done in at least a month, kicking and scratching and tearing at clothes.

Their mother could stop them, but she's at work. Gossiping with other ladies. Talking shit about their father and about her “horrible, lazy children” to anyone who will listen.

Pyotr isn't bigger than Oksana but he has put on a little muscle, so his fingers leave bruises now, but Oksana plays dirty. She will strike anywhere, nothing matters but pain and winning. When she can, she slams her elbow down into his stomach, again and again, and once he curls in... just a bit... just enough to show how weak he is...

...that's when Oksana thinks of the trees. Of the old cars. Of all the faces she has imagined hurting, of breaking. Of all the people she has killed in her own mind, split open and watched them bleed out.

And Oksana reaches down and takes hold of her brother's chin, grip tight and unyielding.

And, for a moment, he looks scared. And, for a moment, all the boredom disappears.

And Oksana feels better.

At least for a moment. For a moment, Oksana feels whole.

/ / /

**[end]**

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine. Cheers.


End file.
